


Swing Away

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You threw some damn nice curves.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swing Away

“You don’t want to be disqualified for a uniform violation,” Midorima says.

Aomine rolls his eyes, but he lets Midorima brush those soft fingertips over his throat as he reaches down to fasten the top button of Aomine’s jersey. It’s an hour before the game; he’ll button it if any damn official tells him to, but so far they never have.

Midorima surveys him critically, crossing his arms over his chest, and Aomine cocks his head. It’s kind of cute how concerned Midorima is about this, how obvious he is about wanting to play against Aomine in a real game (not that Aomine’s not pretty damn exited himself) and how, this close to game time, he’s worried about all the stupid little things.

Aomine grabs Midorima’s hands and pulls him in; Midorima raises an eyebrow.

“Give me a kiss for luck?”

Midorima snorts. “Make your own.”

“Mean,” says Aomine, and he tries to duck in and steal one anyway but Midorima’s got a head start in ducking away.

He’s already extracted himself from Aomine’s grip, and he waves as he slips off down the hallway to the Shutoku locker room. Aomine huffs. It’s not as if acting like a tease is going to help either of them right now, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s too far gone to chase, and they do have a game to prepare for.

* * *

Aomine doesn’t really expect much out of Touou’s first two batters (but he’s not going to say as much to them). Not when Midorima’s this fresh, and especially not when his first pitch is a winding curve that cuts through the air like fighter jet and leaves their leadoff hitter gaping when it breaks across the plate. Even knowing ahead of time that it’s going to be a strike (because Midorima does not throw balls, ever) isn’t enough to prepare him. And the curve isn’t enough of a setup for any batter to get a handle on Midorima’s fastball; it’s deceptively similar on release and Aomine finds himself fooled thinking it’s going to break when it never does.

But the first two batters go down easily, and it’s finally Aomine’s turn. He picks a bat, walks into the box, and settles in, grinning at Midorima. This is going to be fun. Midorima doesn’t seem to even see his face, though; he’s glaring down and nods quickly to confirm the sign.

He’s probably going to throw a fastball first; he’s been throwing mostly curves which means he’s probably saving his fastball to prevent Aomine from getting a good enough read on it early on. Midorima’s also thrown two first-pitch curves already, and he’s not one for shaking up the order for no good reason—but then again, he can be pretty capricious, and like the wind picking up off the sea decide on some silly superstitious reason to change and wrap his lack of reasoning in that pretty little piece of packaging.

Aomine scowls, and Midorima begins his windup. He rears back and almost spins on his heel as he throws his body forward, channeling all of his energy into the end of his arm as he brings the ball forward and releases. It’s coming in too slow; Aomine’s not ready to swing; he’s so concentrated on the fastball that the speed throws him too far off to swing at all and the pitch swipes through the strike zone with no resistance.

Goddamn, is that a beautiful pitch. Seeing it from the on-deck circle or watching Midorima practice is one thing, but facing it is entirely another, like a diamond rather than a rhinestone. He doesn’t even mind too terribly that he’d missed it, because he’d still gotten to watch the curve dart over the corner like a neon tetra flashing as it darts around the water. Aomine rolls his shoulders; now he’s ready. He can take a fastball; he can take a curveball; he can take a changeup—he can take anything.

It comes in slow; Aomine pauses. Is it a changeup? It’s got to be. He starts his swing and then realizes, as the ball sweeps across the zone, that it’s another curve and he’s already swinging over it. That’s strike two; and now he’s in a hole.

Not that that ever got in the way before. Two strikes should, theoretically be the same as none; he’s going to swing if he likes the pitch, and, because it’s Midorima it’s going to be a strike. Other pitchers would waste an outside fastball trying to get batters to chase, but Midorima refuses on principle; to him every pitch is precious, and if everyone’s being honest here he doesn’t need to waste pitches to get batters to chase what they’re not looking for. And now, in Aomine’s case, that’s another curve. Midorima wouldn’t change it up now; he only wants Aomine to think he’s going to but Aomine can already feel the impact from the ball on the barrel of the bat, see the break of the pitch as it happens, grab the sweeping curve and fling it back the other way.

Midorima winds up and delivers; Aomine eases into a swing and misses the ball by about half a kilometer because it’s a fucking changeup and it never breaks; it never speeds up; it moves just enough for him to guess it but not enough to slide across and meet his bat. Strike three.

Aomine looks back at Midorima as they both trail off toward their respective dugouts; Midorima’s walk is confident but no more than usual. He knows the battle is only a third, a quarter over; he knows Aomine’s up again. But he’s taken the first victory, and Aomine’s not quite sure how he can get definitive revenge.

* * *

Shutoku’s ahead when they reach the top of the ninth, their lone run from Kimura’s solo homer making all the difference. Aomine would say that that lead is within reach, but he’s still not really sure. Midorima’s showing no signs of tiring; his changeup is still effective and his fastball has just as much zip on it as it did in the first and his curve hangs like the setting sun, vanishing in a wink under the horizon of their swings. They’ve gotten hits (well, Aomine hasn’t), but they’ve all been weak singles on lucky swings they’d half-expected not to connect, and they’ve been scattered away from each other, too far to make a racket.

Maybe this inning will be different.

Their leadoff hitter swings at the first pitch (Aomine had thought he’d seen Satsuki give him the fucking take sign) and pops it up; the backspin is too much for the ball to go anywhere and it lands smack in Takao’s glove for the first out. Ryou tightens his batting gloves and marches to the plate; Aomine steps into the on-deck circle to get a closer look.

The sweat is pouring from Midorima’s face; he looks tired but determined and even though Aomine can’t see his eyes in the shadow of his cap and behind his glasses, he’d bet money that they’re set and focused on the narrow lane into Takao’s glove. Aomine leans on the bat and waits; Midorima settles in and nods at the sign. And then he rears back and fires; the ball comes sinking in and even from this angle Aomine can see the sweep of the curve, the break before it happens. Ryou’s squaring up; he swings, but the ball still hasn’t broken; it swerves off late and he swings under where it was, too late.

Strike one.

Even if Ryou gets on base, even if Aomine moves him over, how are they going to score?

Aomine frowns. This isn’t like him, to worry so much about the minutiae; it’s not the way he plays. He just goes out there and listens to his body and does what he’s going to do, and he trusts that it’s going to work out and backs that up—and that’s exactly how he hasn’t been hitting all game. He’s been behind; he’s been cautious because it’s Midorima, because this is important, because some of Midorima’s over-preparedness and analytical thinking has rubbed off on him, because he’s more than a little anxious.

It works for Midorima, but it doesn’t work for him.

The second pitch comes in; Ryou’s swinging the whole time. Ryou knows it’s going to break before it does; he can’t tell where but by sheer force or by Midorima’s mistake or by something else he catches it with the bottom of the barrel and it goes spinning off into the netherworld between third and home.

Their third baseman’s been playing back; Takao is certainly not expecting a swinging bunt; they both charge for it but by the time the third baseman picks it up to throw it Ryou’s two steps away from the bag and before he can begin to throw Ryou’s safe.

And there it is, the circumstance Aomine’s going to work to his advantage. He glances over at Satsuki; she just looks at him (she knows directions aren’t going to help him here, and that’s just the way he wants it, only him and Midorima). He strolls to the plate and digs his feet into the batter’s box, adjusting himself so he’s looking at Midorima correctly. His limbs are loose; formless stance or not he’s got to be comfortable. Midorima looks over at first base and then back, wiping the sweat from his brow. And then he smiles. Aomine has no idea if Midorima’s even looking at his face, but he smiles back.

The first pitch comes in straight, sizzling; it zips but doesn’t really break and Aomine lets it pass. He’s not all that interested in a fastball right now; it’s not mean enough for him to get back. He waits for the return throw and digs in his toes again. This time Midorima throws a curve.

It cuts in on his hands and he fouls it straight back; his palms are stinging from the vibrations of the bat and he swears under his breath. Midorima’s not kidding here, but then he never is. And Aomine’s not, either.

The third pitch seems just like the first when it comes out of Midorima’s hand, but Aomine knows better. It’s slow, with a little bit of bite, like a piece of milk chocolate with bits of hot pepper inside, breaking at the next-to-last moment, but not before Aomine can adjust his swing to meet it at the sweet spot.

He’s off and running nearly right away; he doesn’t stop to watch it go because he doesn’t care where it is (and he can feel right away that it’s not gone); ahead of him Ryou is racing for third and Harasawa’s nearly dropped his clipboard at first but yells at him to keep going. He rounds first; Ryou’s cleared third and he puts on the gas—and fuck it, he’s going to get to third base; even if Satsuki were giving him a stop sign he’d do it anyway because he feels like he’s finally shaken off the chains of the theoretical game and he’s doing what he needs to. The Shutoku third baseman is holding out his glove in preparation for the throw, but he’s prone to making flourishing tags and when Aomine sees the ball flying toward him he knows what he has to do.

Headfirst slides aren’t pretty, but this one gets the job done. He’s already hugging the bag with his dirt-covered arms when the third baseman’s tag hits him on the back and he grins into the ground. He’s 90 feet away from putting Touou ahead; he’s a steal or a squeeze play or a routine grounder away from making the near-insurmountable lead theirs.

And he’d gotten that hit off of Midorima, no less.

“Where’d it go?” he asks Satsuki, dusting himself off.

“Right field wall.”

Hell yeah. He looks at Midorima; Midorima’s looking at him—and he gives something kind of like a half-nod before turning toward Wakamatsu at the plate. Aomine’s going to drag the whole thing out of him later, but he’s got a game to win right now. And when Wakamatsu sends a pitch sailing into left-center for a sac fly, that’s that. Aomine’s willing to throttle Shutoku’s four-five-six hitters all by himself to seal the victory if he needs to.

(Lucky for him, he doesn’t.)

* * *

“You should have let me kiss you,” says Aomine.

“I thought that was for your luck,” says Midorima.

He can’t cross his arms when his left is encased in ice like this, but Aomine can tell he’s thinking about doing it anyway, and the small frustrated sound he makes when he realizes there’s no way he’ll get away with it is too cute.

“You threw some damn nice curves.”

Despite himself, Midorima smiles—he knows it already and he’s not wanting in terms of self-assurance, but that doesn’t mean Aomine’s not going to say it, especially not when his reward includes Midorima looking this cute.

“Thank you,” says Midorima. “You looked…better at the plate.”

And there’s the grudging respect that Aomine knows so well, better than he knows the flat fastballs thrown from the pitching machine or a routine ground ball. He throws his arm around Midorima’s shoulders.

“Good game.”

“Well,” says Midorima, and then he falls silent.

He checks the ice strapped to his arm even though it’s obviously secure, flexes his hand, and then looks over at Aomine again. His cheeks are flushed; he looks tired but not defeated, resolute.

“I suppose if we had to lose, I’d rather lose to you.”

Aomine grins; Midorima’s flushing redder now (his face is more vibrant than his uniform jacket).

“Aww, Midorima, that’s sweet.”

“Shut up,” says Midorima, but he’s leaning in closer.

Aomine’s awfully glad he remembered to turn his hat backward, just so he can bring his lips up to close the shrinking gap and touch them against Midorima’s.

“Shutoku will win next time,” Midorima mutters into Aomine’s mouth.

“We’ll see.”


End file.
